


The Green Man

by wrennette



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Anal Sex, F/M, Fellatio, Feral Children, Hand Jobs, Implied Sibling Incest, Ladies of the Crossroads, M/M, Merlin is a force of nature, Merlin is magic, Paganism, Threesome - F/F/M, archiving old words, but they're just kids at the beginning, eventual slash, handies and beejs, mythology and religion, poorly researched paganism, slight gore, taking liberties with Arthurania, taking liberties with mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 17:05:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4795373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrennette/pseuds/wrennette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the legends, Merlin is always a boy without a father. He's also the wild man of the woods. What if his mother died when he was just a boy and he raised himself, half feral in the forest?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wild Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Archiving from LJ. Originally posted 2008.
> 
> Disclaimer: Merlin is the property of the BBC. The author in no way profits from this fiction.
> 
> Original AN: At the beginning, Arthur and Merlin are about thirteen years old. I'm also adopting the mythology where he has a twin sister Ganieda, but I'll probably kill her off.

# The Wild Boy

Arthur glanced over at his father anxiously, hoping that the King could not see just how nervous he was. It was his first time riding out with the Knights, and all the other Squires had been left back in the encampment. But it was essential that the heir to the throne learn the arts of war up close and personal. The company of Knights was a small one, the majority remaining behind in defense of Camelot. After all, they were not openly at war with Mercia, and so bringing a full contingent of Knights would have seemed paranoid. Still, Arthur would not have minded a few more Knights. He had heard the whispers the servants thought they hid behind their hands. These woods were haunted.

Everything was quiet, and it made Arthur nervous. The shrill scream of a bird from deeper in the forest made him start, and his mount danced under him, snorting. Neither the King nor any of the Knights spared him a single glance, continuing on. He felt his face heat and ducked his head down near his horse's neck, murmuring soft nonsense into the beast's ears, smoothing one hand along the warm fur beneath its mane. When he looked up, he stopped short, reining in quickly to avoid running into the mount of the Knight riding ahead of him. 

"What is the meaning of this?" Uther demanded, and Arthur half stood in his stirrups. A slender boy stood in the middle of the path, the emaciated form of a girl clutched against his side. Both were clothed only in their hair and skins. Their cheeks and stomachs were hollow with hunger, and Arthur could count their every rib standing out in stark relief. The girl's night dark hair hung in heavy plaits over her small breasts, a crown of wilted ivy wound around her temples. She was pale as the moon, eyes closed, leaning against her companion. A rough hide kilt covered her hips and upper thighs, a wicked looking knife thrust into the waist, pouches dangling around her slender hips. 

She and the boy were of a height, and their colouring was quite similar. His cheeks were reddened with exposure, his raven hair hanging, matted past his shoulders, tangled with sticks and burrs. Both of them were cut all over with brambles and smeared with dirt. A dark stain that Arthur was certain was blood was smeared across the boy's mouth, and the same colour stained his hands and forearms to the elbow. Like the girl, he wore a rough hide kilt, a knife and small pouches attached to the waist.

"Who are you?" one of the Knights demanded, and the boy cocked his head, looking up at them quizzically. "Your name boy," the Knight urged, drawing his sword, and the boy backed away a step, baring his teeth ferally. The girl turned her face into her companion, and she whispered softly in his ear. The boy backed away another step, and from the small of his back produced a long blade fashioned from a stag's discarded antler. A low animalistic growl welled out of the boy, big grey eyes narrowing down to dark slits. The Knights shifted, kneeing their horses between the royal family and the feral boy. But the boy kept backing away, clearly just wanting to keep them away, keep them from the girl. 

When they reached the town, the Knights brought them tales of the wild children from the locals. No one could say for certain who they were. Just that they had been in the forest for some time, and were mostly harmless. The boy though, the boy was lethal when provoked. Once or twice some drunk got the idea that the wild girl might make a quick, unresisting lay, and gone into the forest to bring her out. None of those who went in with the intention of harming the girl came out alive. They would be found on the edge of the forest some days later, throat slit or windpipe crushed, small bloody handprints on their bodies.

The idea of it was rather shocking to Arthur. His life had been touched by death from the very start, but he had never killed a man. The sight of Knights wounded from tournaments rather turned his stomach, with the blood and gore. Not that he would ever admit that of course. But it was definitely part of the reason he trains so hard. He wasn't sure he could deal with his own blood spilling hot and red over the sands of the arena. They didn't stay long in the village at the edge of the woods. They had business to attend to. Arthur, for one, was glad to be far away from the strange wild children. He was even gladder when they returned to Camelot by a different road, and avoided the forest altogether. 

Over the next few years though, as Arthur grew from Squire towards Knighthood, the memory of the gaunt faced feral boy haunted his dreams. Sometimes, he would dream of walking the forests closer to Camelot, bow in hand, and the wild boy would walk silently at his side, that long bone knife in his bloodstained hands, hair falling in silken waves about his shoulders. Other times they would face one another in a clearing in the woods, both stripped to the waist, blooded from one another's blades. The dreams where he fought the wild boy always made Arthur jerk awake in a cold sweat, heart pounding, knowing in his heart that something was wrong but not knowing quite what.


	2. The Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin and Arthur meet again.

# The Hunter

Despite his dreams, Arthur did not return to the forest until he was seventeen. His Knighthood was nearly upon him, and his father sent him on errands that usually an older Knight would have taken. Arthur knew that these missions were tests of a sort, his father's way of determining if he were man enough to take the mantle of Knighthood. He was never quite certain if he had passed or not, Uther as closed to him as the Queen's chambers. So he slowly entered the forest, remembering the slender boy with the antler blade, wondering how one survived in such a fashion.

So preoccupied with his thoughts was Arthur that he did not note the unnatural stillness of the forest. He did not hear the suspicious rustling in the underbrush until his horse began to shy under him, and then it was too late. The club connected solidly with the side of his royal skull, sending him slumping into unconsciousness and off his mount. The forest was still and silent but for the shadowy curve in the road, and the bandits knew their trade well. They deftly slipped jewels and coins from the Prince's person.

Arthur woke to crashing motion all around him, his head swimming. His spotted vision cleared slowly, but that did not help him understand what he saw. Dead men lay all around him, blood oozing from slit throats and stab wounds. He tried to rise, but his head would not let him, and so he slumped forward, trying to clear his vision once more. A strangling noise behind him caught his attention, and he turned in time to see one of the brigands collapse to his knees, hands scrabbling futilely at the garrote around his throat. Behind him stood the wild boy, older now, and more lethal than ever.

The wild boy's hair was longer than Arthur remembered, but just as raven dark and burr tangled. He wore necklaces made out of rat and bird skulls strung on sinews. A hide kilt was slung low around slender hips, a wide leather belt holding it up. The belt, Arthur was certain, had been stolen from some dead man. Skins and rags protected the wild boys feet, lower legs, and forearms, but still the stranger was more naked than not. His skin was pale golden, shoulders and arms burned darker with sun. Blood was spattered across the wild boys face and chest, and Arthur had thought he looked deadly from the start, but the blood only added to that. 

"I mean you no harm," Arthur said hurriedly, scrambling back towards the fire, hands aching for a weapon. The boy cocked his head to the side, a rather inhuman motion, and Arthur stilled. "I mean you no harm, I swear," he promised again, and the wild boy slowly approached, stepping more fully into the fire light. He was still slender, every rib showing, every joint pointed beneath his skin. But hard living had carved sinewy muscles under his skin as well, and Arthur knew the wild boy had the strength to strangle a grown man with his bare hands. 

"I know you," the wild boy said haltingly, coiling the garrote around his wrist, then crouching, wiping his bloody hands in the trampled grass. 

"You speak?" Arthur gasped, a bit amazed, and the boy nodded. 

"I learn," the boy said haltingly. "I knew before, but I learn more, when the men come to the forest." Arthur nodded, glancing once more around them, at the bodies in the clearing. 

"These men?" he asked, and the wild boy nodded. 

"They steal you," the boy said. "They steal my sister. She fight, kill them, but them too many. They hurt her. Kill her. Now I kill them." It made sense, in simple animal logic, and Arthur almost pitied the bastards. 

"Are there any others?" Arthur asked, again making to rise. The wild boy shook his head to the negative, then reached out, flattened his filthy palm against Arthur's chest and pressed him back to the forest floor. 

"You hurt," the boy said. "Stay." Arthur would have protested, but he felt weak as a day old kitten, and his head was still swimming nauseatingly. The wild boy disappeared into the shadows, simply melted into the nothingness beyond the ring of light. Arthur waited, and after a while, he drifted off. 

Arthur woke to wide golden eyes staring at him across the fire. The forest was still all around them, but it was the stillness of night and sleep, not the unnatural stillness of ambush. Slowly Arthur's eyes adjusted, and he saw it was still night, and the golden orbs belonged to the wild boy, and were simply reflecting the firelight back at him. He heard the soft susurration of a cloth in a water vessel, and then a cool rag was swiping over his face. He gasped softly, and water trickled into his mouth, waking his thirst. Arthur reached up blindly, and his hands found soft smooth skin stretched over hard muscle. He felt gently, mapping the wild boy's invisible body with his hands, until he found an arm and traced it to a hand, and a carved wooden bowl. 

He pulled the hand holding the bowl closer, and then the rough edge was pressed to his lips, and he drank eagerly, not caring if the water were clean or not. But the water tasted fresh and sweet, and the cool cloth disguised the shape of the wild boy's hand as it cradled his neck. Gasping, Arthur collapsed weakly, letting the strength of the wild boy support him to the mouldering forest floor. The wild boy pulled the bowl away, filled it again from a water skin, then crumpled some leaves between his fingers and added those. Arthur watched, transfixed, as the wild boy's eyes flared with golden firelight as he stirred in the leaves. 

The boy's eyes met his, stormy grey to summer blue, as he offered the bowl again. 

"To clear your head," the boy said, and his speech was smoother, surer than before. Arthur reached up with both hands, and again he wild boy cradled his head, helped him support the bowl. "Rest," the wild boy ordered, and Arthur could not resist the command. For a moment he was surprised at how very tired he was, but then he was slumping back to the forest floor, limbs limp with drugged sleep. The wild boy stood gracefully, eyes luminous in the fire-lit clearing. A soft call, and a massive buck slipped into the clearing. The boy rubbed at the stag's nose, then bent, shouldering the weight of his golden haired guest. He eased the Prince across the withers of the stag, then mounted and let the buck carry them out of the clearing.


	3. The Jack of the Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin and Arthur's relationship (such as it is) turns physical. Follows immediately from 'The Hunter'.

# The Jack in the Green

When Arthur woke again, he was warm and naked, curled in a soft nest of furs and lightly tickling feathers. He stirred sleepily, half sitting and looking about. The forest was green and gold all around him, and it took a few moments for him to realize that he was up in a tree. His perch was a well constructed nest woven of living branches, and he looked about in amazement. Skin bags and raffia baskets hung from the branches all around him, bunches of herbs drying overhead. There was a slight rustling, and the wild boy appeared, a brace of coneys over his shoulder. 

"Do you have a name?" Arthur asked, and the wild boy smiled at him, an expression that transformed his face into something almost, but not quite, friendly. 

"I am Merlin," the wild boy said, and Arthur couldn't help but smile back. 

"I am Arthur Pendragon," he said. "Thank you. You saved my life." Merlin smiled more softly, cheeks spotting with high color. 

"You're welcome," Merlin said, then looked up through his dark lashes. Slowly Merlin reached out, and Arthur held perfectly still. Merlin's hand swept down the side of his face, then cupped his chin, pulling him forward. They kissed roughly, no finesse at all, and Arthur groaned, because he had never even contemplated the idea of kissing another man on the mouth, but it was wonderful, perfect, and Merlin's tongue was sweeping along the seam of his lips, urging him to open.

Arthur groaned, acquiescing, and Merlin's tongue was mapping every corner of his mouth, tasting him, memorizing him. Merlin's physicality, his presence, were overwhelming, and Arthur didn't even try to fight. He let Merlin press him back into the nest of furs, until Merlin was kneeling between his thighs. The brush of Merlin's hide kilt against his cock made Arthur gasp, and then he was hitching his hips up eagerly, Merlin's slender, capable hands cupping his ass. Arthur whimpered as the slick head of Merlin's cock pressed against his entrance. Sudden knowledge of what would come next nearly froze Arthur in place, and then he was pushing Merlin away, pulling free of the wild boy. 

"No," Arthur breathed, and Merlin cocked his head, that same inhuman motion. 

"Why?" Merlin asked, and Arthur could see the honest confusion on his face. 

"I don't know you," Arthur said rather stiffly, cupping his hands over his groin. "I've only just met you." Merlin's dark eyebrows furrowed deeply. 

"So?" Merlin asked, and Arthur sighed and scrubbed his hand through his hair. "You can stick yours in me," Merlin proposed a moment later, a teasing little smile curling at the corners of his mouth. Arthur just stared, a bit dazed, as Merlin skinned off his kilt and spread his slender thighs, exposing himself shamelessly. The wild boy was all elbows and knees, strawberry and cream skin rubbed brown with dirt and glistening with sweat. Arthur could see every bit of Merlin, from the silvery scars that traced weblike over his whole body to the glistening purple cock between his legs. 

Arthur felt arousal tighten in his gut as he looked over Merlin. The dappled summer sunlight cast Merlin in gold, picked little specks of amber out in his stormy blue-grey eyes. Almost without thinking on it Arthur reached down to rub himself. The motion earned him a toothy, slightly vicious smile from Merlin, and Arthur's brain snapped off. He grabbed Merlin and fit their hips together before he even realized he was moving. Merlin's grin widened, and he ground back against Arthur eagerly, shameless in his hedonistic enjoyment. Arthur groaned tightly, hands slipping over Merlin's hips, cupping his ass, searching for his tight entrance. Not knowing any better, Arthur forced the head of his cock into Merlin without any preparation, making the dark haired boy hiss and writhe in pain. Arthur growled softly in response, catching Merlin's flailing arms by the wrist and pinning them to the branches of the tree.

Curling over Merlin to hold his wrists pinned next to his head, Arthur rutted into the other boy roughly. Merlin thrashed under him, growling and snapping like the wild thing he was, dark hair flying around his flushed face. Slowly, as Arthur pounded into him, Merlin's motions changed from struggling for escape to meeting every thrust; his vocalizations changed from angry cries and growls to whimpers and mewls of pleasure. Merlin's screwed closed eyes opened, and Arthur gasped softly in surprise. The sliver of iris visible around Merlin's blown pupils sparked the gold of new minted coins. 

Merlin lunged up, kissing and biting at Arthur's mouth, drawing blood, and Arthur began to move again, pounding deep and hard into the other boy. It was a rough, violent fucking, and it was over very quickly, Arthur gasping wordlessly as he poured himself into Merlin, hips stuttering forward. Merlin mewled as he was filled, arching up and baring his neck in submission, then reaching down to roughly jerk himself to hissing, spitting completion. 

They collapsed together into a sweaty, stinking tangle of limbs, sated. Arthur dozed lightly, curled against Merlin in the treetop nest. He woke a while later at the death scream of a rabbit, jerking hurriedly awake at the strangled call. He was once more alone in the nest, but when he peered over the side, he saw Merlin at the foot of the tree, using that long bone knife to skin the rabbit. Blood stained Merlin's face and hands, and Arthur felt arousal tighten in his gut. 

Carefully he picked his way out of the nest and down the tree to where Merlin crouched. The other rabbits were already skinned, their hides stretched over lashed together frames and scraped clean. Merlin had left the meat on the bones of the rabbits, just cut the corpses into joints and laid them on fresh grape leaves. For a few moments, Arthur just watched the deft motions of Merlin's slender fingers, then reached for the meat, meaning to take it and start a cooking fire. Merlin's hand moved without the dark haired boy even sparing Arthur a glance, and Arthur screamed in shock and pain as the bloody bone blade slammed through his hand, pinning it to the roots of the tree. 

"Mine," Merlin said simply, and Arthur nodded, dazed, staring at his hand where the blade split his flesh. Merlin used a steel knife to finish his task, then left Arthur there, wandering a few feet away to a dusty pit. Arthur watched, holding as still as possible to avoid jarring his hand, as Merlin carefully built a little mound of tinder, then held his hand over it. Arthur didn't see his lips move, and he had always been under the impression that you needed some sort of incantation to do magic. What Merlin did was definitely magic though, because he had set light to the sparse fuel without a fire bow or flint. The wild boy carefully built up the fire, then let it settle into a healthy pile of coals before setting the leaf wrapped coney into it. 

Satisfied that their supper was cooking properly, Merlin came back to Arthur and jerked the blade free. Arthur just barely managed to hold in another scream of pain. He lifted his hand automatically, cradling it to his chest like a wounded bird. Merlin gave a soft snort of exasperation, then grabbed the injured appendage and dragged Arthur, wincing, closer to the fire. 

"Stay," Merlin said simply, and Arthur nodded, again cradling the hand to his chest. He had received far worse wounds on the practice fields, but it was one thing to get hurt while training, when he half expected it, and quite another to have some bloke you had just fucked stab you through the hand with a deer's antler.

Merlin returned fairly shortly with a pair of smooth stones and a handful of leaves. One of the stones was worn down into something slightly bowl shaped, the other shaped rather like an egg. The scent of fresh herbs cut through the smoke and blood, and Arthur watched as Merlin mashed the leaves between the two stones. The mixture smelled pungent, astringent and sharp, and when Merlin imperiously held out his hand, Arthur only hesitated a moment before offering his. The green paste stung slightly as Merlin smeared it over the open wound, and then the poultice was covered by fresh leaves and bound with sinews and strips of soft rabbit hide. Arthur wiggled his fingers experimentally, and found that his hand was already numb. Whatever Merlin had put in that paste, it worked quite nicely.

For the next few days, Arthur lived like Merlin, like a wild man of the woods. They ran naked beneath the trees, hunting and fishing and rooting for their meals. Arthur was often hungry, but he had more than enough fun to make up for it. And every night, and often times in between, he and Merlin rutted against one another, twining together like minks, bringing one another to panting, shaking completion. When his hand healed though, Arthur knew he would have to go soon. One morning he woke alone in their sunny tree top nest, his clothes spread on the furs next to him. It was time to go. He dressed slowly, hand only a little stiff, and when he climbed down, his horse was tied to the lower branches of a nearby tree, packets of dried berries and smoked coney wrapped in fresh leaves and packed into his saddle bags. He rode away slowly, looking back every few paces. He didn't see Merlin, but he could feel those storm grey eyes on his back.


	4. The Horned God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Merlin are in their early twenties, and Arthur is newly crowned King of Camelot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also bringing in some of the other Merlin legends, i.e., that he's a bit of a womanizer.

# The Horned God

Arthur stopped short, staring. He knew who it was. There was no question in his mind. But he had not expected to ever see Merlin again. But there the wild boy was, more man than boy now, shoulders broad beneath his deerskin cloak. The hood of the cloak was pulled up, and Merlin looked like the scratched out depictions of the old Horned God, crowned in oak and antlers. 

"Hold," Arthur ordered his Knights, and they looked at him quizzically. 

"My Liege?" one of the braver ones ventured, but he waved the man silent. 

"Hello Merlin," he called, voice ringing richly across the clearing, and a blood stained hand reached up, pushing back the antlered hood. Merlin's eyes were gold as a cat's, and a new scar ran from his left temple down the side of his face, pulling down one corner of his generous mouth. The scar did not alter Merlin's viciously joyful grin however, and Arthur could not help but grin in response. Merlin reached down, fondly rubbing the ears of the wolf that stood at his side, then shed his cloak altogether and loped lazily over to the band of steel armed men. It amused Arthur somewhat, the juxtaposition of Merlin, ever the wild card, and his loyal Knights. He was certain that although the wild man was slighter than any of the Knights and armed only with that ivory white blade of stag horn, Merlin could easily best any two of his Knights. 

"Hello Arthur," Merlin said, and his voice was rough with disuse, creaky and dry. Arthur unstrapped his waterskin and handed it to Merlin, and golden eyes glittered with mirth before falling closed as Merlin drank deeply. While Merlin took long greedy pulls from the skin, Arthur watched the motion of his elegant throat, transfixed by the bobbing of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. Unbidden his mind raced back to their sunlit idyll in the forest, Merlin's mouth hot and berry stained against his skin. He glanced at Merlin's hands, saw the stains of dirt and blood under his short nails. Long scratches ran silver pale up Merlin's forearms, and again Arthur's mind was sent spinning down paths of memory, to long nights of tracing Merlin's scars by the light of the silvery moon, trying to determine what had caused the marks on his slender form. Merlin handed the waterskin back without a single word of thanks, looking up at Arthur evenly, perfectly at ease in his own skin. 

"What brings you to this part of Camelot?" Arthur asked, and his tone was not so imperious as he would have liked. Merlin shrugged noncommittally. 

"They say there is a Cockatrice in the woods," Merlin said. "Guarding a cave where the Mortaeus grows. I need Mortaeus, so I must find the Cockatrice." One of the Knights snorted with soft derision. 

"A Cockatrice," Arthur asked skeptically, raising his eyebrow, and Merlin shrugged again. 

"So they say," Merlin said, and Arthur could not tell if the raven haired man believed in the mythical beast or not. The wolf yipped from across the clearing, impatient, and Merlin half turned, yipping back at it, as if he could actually speak with the beast. Arthur smiled indulgently. He was unsure if Merlin truly understood the creature or not, but he had seen the wild man with the beasts of the forest enough to know that Merlin had a way with animals, that he was really more animal than man himself at times.

"I should like to see this Cockatrice," Arthur decided, and his Knights shifted in their saddles, their armour creaking and clanking in unvoiced disapproval. Merlin just smiled though, that vicious smile that made Arthur think of blood and sex. Without waiting for him to make any further declarations, Merlin sauntered away again, whistling sharply. The wolf bolted to Merlin's side, and a massive red deer eased out from beneath the eaves of the wood. Merlin rubbed the stag's nose gently, as a lady would rub the nose of her palfrey, and then, taking one massive antler in his hand, swung gracefully up onto the hart's back. Arthur could not help but stare as the stag ducked back under the trees, Merlin reaching up to pull down an unstrung yew bow and hide quiver full of arrows, then a large hide pack. As they went deeper into the shadowy forest, Arthur heard his Knights begin to murmur amongst themselves, not sure what to make of their guide. Arthur smiled to himself at their fussing, content to watch the gentle bunch and slide of the muscles in Merlin's tan back as he rode.

The cave itself was like an open wound in the surface of the earth, gaping open like a hungry maw. The horses pranced nervously, obviously uncomfortable in the deep forest. A blood curdling scream was their only warning before the Cockatrice was amongst them, tearing the throats from two of the chargers, then ripping the leg from one of the Knights. The others dismounted hurriedly, fumbling for their swords, but Merlin was already on the ground, hide cloak wound protectively around his off arm, bone knife clutched in his dominant hand. Arthur dismounted as well, shoving through the clustered Knights to get a good view. The Cockatrice screamed and hissed, and Arthur realized that Merlin had already drawn blood. A raw gash ran across the beast's face, dark ichor seeping into one eye and half blinding it. It was a large beast, but not as large as Arthur would have imagined, only the size of a large donkey or yearling colt. Still, it was fast, and judging from the moans emanating from Yvain, armed with sharp and venomous teeth. 

Watching Merlin fight was rather like watching a single wolf try to take down an ox. He relied on footwork, circling the Cockatrice. He relied on speed, lashing out quickly with the bone blade, leaving gashes in the Cockatrice's flesh. The Cockatrice was not helpless though. It lashed out as well, using its heavy tail to knock Merlin back and sweep him off his feet. Merlin was agile though, regaining his feet with feline grace and striking in the same motion, again slashing through armoured skin. Slowly Merlin bled the strength from the Cockatrice, until it was hamstrung, spitting helplessly in blind hatred. Merlin put it out of its misery quickly, the bone blade easily parting the soft skin beneath the creature's jaw, spilling dark lifes-blood on the forest floor. Arthur took an unconscious step back as Merlin looked over to him, eyes flashing with golden danger. Then Merlin smiled that wolf smile, all sharp teeth and danger, and Arthur could taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, and it made him almost painfully hard. 

"Stay," Merlin commanded, as imperious as every, and laughter bubbled up out of Arthur's throat before he could quite help it, because no one had dared order him do anything since his father had been killed.

"I would rather not," Arthur said, laughter still colouring his voice, and Merlin just shrugged and turned his back, loping towards the dark maw of the cavern. Arthur turned to his Knights, bid them stay in turn, and Gawain made some attempt at argument, but an icy look from Arthur had his hot tempered cousin sinking back in futile, silent, annoyance. Arthur checked that his sword was loose in its sheathe on instinct, then ducked into the cave. A shimmering globe of blue white witch-fire bobbed in the distance, and as he approached he saw that it floated over Merlin's head. The deer cloak was once more about Merlin's shoulders, and Arthur resisted the urge to run his hands over the soft short fur. 

"So the Mortaeus," Arthur asked, and Merlin gave him a sideways glance, golden eyes luminous in the half dark. 

"The blossom is deadly poison," Merlin said. "The leaves the only antidote. When prepared by one such as myself, the poison is especially lethal." Arthur nodded, wondering who Merlin meant to poison. He did not ask though, mostly because he did not wish to know. The glimmering witch-light led them through the labyrinthine caverns, until Arthur could see tiny golden flowers clinging to the rock face. 

"Start heading for the surface," Merlin suggested. "Unless you like spiders?" Arthur shivered slightly, wrinkling his nose in displeasure. 

"How?" he asked, and Merlin pointed up the nearly sheer wall of the cavern. 

"I will send the light with you," Merlin said. "I have no need of it." Arthur nodded, crossing the natural stone bridge that led to the flowers. The orb of silvery light traveled with him, then began ascending the wall. He paused, gauging handholds and footholds, then followed. Vaguely he could hear Merlin moving in the darkness below, but his focus was on the wall, on finding holds to pull himself up out of the earth. When he pulled himself up into the gathering darkness of the shadowy forest, his Knights were around him within moments, talking over one another, asking questions on how he knew the strange man in the deer cloak. Arthur silenced them with another icy look, then stalked back to his horse, tension bunching in his shoulders. 

Yvain lay still and pale in a bed of dead leaves, breath but a death rattle in his chest. The space where his leg should have been was a sloppy mess of dark venal blood, mangled meat and shards of shattered bone, and Arthur knew the Knight would not live. He knelt, smoothing his hands through the older man's sweat soaked hair. 

"My Liege," Yvain managed weakly, and Arthur shushed him gently. 

"Hush," Arthur urged softly. "It's over." Yvain nodded weakly, then gasped and went still as Arthur's dagger found the weak spot in his armour beneath the arm opening. Lifes-blood again stained the forest floor, and Yvain was nothing more than soft flesh wrapped in cool steel. Deftly Arthur cleaned and re-sheathed his blade, then stood, silently daring the other Knights to remark on his actions. They looked away ashamedly, none meeting his eyes. Arthur turned, smoothing his hand over his charger's muzzle, ignoring his Knights. 

If Merlin were a wolf, a comparison Arthur found apt at the moment, his Knights were obedient, well meaning, if slightly clumsy and overly affectionate dogs, looking to their pack leader when faced with a foe they did not quite understand. Merlin appeared not too long later, the Knights all hurriedly fumbling for their swords, as if they could have actually harmed Merlin. Arthur could not help his smile, and Merlin smile in response. For the first time, Arthur noticed the new wounds, half healed hurts and the still oozing marks left by the Cockatrice. 

"Return with me," Arthur offered on impulse. "Come to Camelot proper." Merlin cocked his head to the side, that thinking gesture Arthur remembered so well, and Arthur felt his stomach clench in anticipation. After a moment, Merlin nodded, a single succinct motion of his dark head, and warmth blossomed in Arthur's gut. Merlin knelt, speaking softly to the wolf, and it panted, tongue lolling, then bounded away, yipping. The hart seemed to nod in agreement, then it melted into the shadows of the forest. Arthur grinned and mounted, his charger dancing under him as it caught his excitement. He extended his arm down to Merlin, and the slender young man gripped his forearm tightly and allowed himself to be pulled up. Deceptively slender arms wrapped around Arthur's waist, and Merlin's breath ghosted warmly against the side of his neck.

"Bors, Geraint," Arthur called, picking out the two most inexperienced Knights. "Build a litter, carry Yvain's body back to Camelot. I will expect you within the week." They bowed, mail covered fists thumping hollowly against their chests, and then the other Knights were mounting, wheeling their chargers and heading out of the forest. They camped on the plain, and in the morning Arthur woke to Merlin's wet kisses. He groaned softly in pleasure, reaching down to tangle his fingers in Merlin's raven tresses. Merlin smiled up at him, eyes gold sparked grey, then ducked down to run his tongue along the tender join between Arthur's torso and thigh. Arthur groaned deeply, then clenched his jaw to keep from crying out as Merlin's tongue teased up his cock. 

"Merlin," he gasped, tightening his grip on the other man's hair, wondering vaguely where the wild man had learned this before the sensation of Merlin's breath on his wet cock drove all thought from Arthur's head. Merlin's throat contracted around Arthur's dick, and Arthur's entire world narrowed to that hot, wet cavern and the rough feeling of Merlin's matted hair beneath his hands. The intensity of being buried balls-deep in Merlin again drove Arthur over the edge with embarrassing speed, but it didn't really matter, because a moment after he came, Merlin's mouth was pressed against his, the taste of his seed sharp and bitter and salty on his tongue. 

It tasted nothing like the copper tang of blood, but then Merlin's sharp teeth were pulling at his lips, and the familiar metallic taste flooded Arthur's mouth, flooded his mind with the memory of a hundred other bloody kisses. Merlin kissed like he fought, sharp and deadly, hands everywhere at once, short-bitten nails raising pink weals on Arthur's golden skin. Arthur groaned into the kiss, breath hitching as Merlin's erection slicked pre-come across his belly. Merlin shifted, changed the angle, and his cock slipped into the cleft of Arthur's ass, the swollen head slicking insistently over Arthur's entrance. 

Again Arthur's mind spiraled back, this time to Merlin screaming and thrashing under him, to how violently he had taken the other boy those years before. His body tensed in nervous anticipation, but he didn't have the strength this time, to push Merlin away. Merlin pulled away slightly, mouth red with Arthur's blood, and his touch gentled, hands ghosting over Arthur's form, calming him, soothing him with soft murmurs. Slowly Arthur relaxed a bit, and then the head of Merlin's cock was easing into him, hot and hard, and he arched his back, biting his lip bloody to keep from screaming. Merlin shushed him gently, eyes sparking gold, and Arthur whimpered as his muscles were forcibly relaxed. Merlin's lips moved over his chest, leaving a trail of blood and saliva as Merlin sucked at his nipples and raised mouth shaped bruises.

"Merlin," Arthur gasped, unable to bear the feeling of being filled, and Merlin grinned ferally, undulating his hips and making Arthur see stars. "Merlin," Arthur groaned again, and then Merlin's strong, slender hands were cupping his ass, lifting him, and Merlin's cock again bumped against that place deep in Arthur's center and made him arch and swear and beg like a common whore. 

It was not quite violent, not quite brutal, but Arthur knew he wouldn't be walking quite right that day with the pounding Merlin was giving him. But he didn't want it to stop, didn't want Merlin to gentle his taking. If anything, he wanted Merlin to be rougher, harder. He wanted to feel Merlin's full strength pounding into him, wanted to see if his body could handle that. He wanted Merlin to possess him as no other lover of his ever had, had ever even tried to. Pleasure sparked behind Arthur's eyes, made him grunt and gasp and moan, and then he let out a long low keening from the depths of his being, unable to voice his complete undoing in any other way. His cock twitched to life, hardening rapidly as Merlin pounded into him over and again. 

"Merlin," Arthur gasped throatily, and Merlin's teeth closed on his Adam's apple, worrying the stubble of his three day beard, and he groaned wordlessly. "Please," he choked out, and Merlin's hands gripped his hips so hard there would be bruises, and the wild man slammed his hips up into Arthur's, and Arthur keened again, then collapsed bonelessly in orgasm. A few violent snaps of the hips later, Merlin let out a similar keening cry, and Arthur whimpered as he felt hot seed fill him. 

Merlin rose from their tangled bed a few moments later, mouth smeared with the blood of their violent kisses, cum smeared on his pale thighs. Arthur groaned softly, reaching for a cloth to clean up with as he watched Merlin stretch. Tiny lancets of light streaked through the walls of the tent, limning Merlin's form with the pale gold of early morning. 

"What are you?" Arthur asked softly, more to himself than Merlin, but Merlin turned to him nonetheless, smiling that vicious bloodstained smile. 

"You know what I am," Merlin answered, and his voice was almost kind, as if Arthur were either slow or stupid. Arthur shook his head, because the only thing he was really certain of regarding Merlin was that he was an enigma. Merlin smiled though, then took the cloth from Arthur and wiped himself clean. Arthur lay abed, watching Merlin explore the tent. It didn't take long for Merlin to find Arthur's small pack of spare clothes, and without regard for things like personal property, Merlin pulled out a pair of hide breeches and a soft linen shirt and dressed, then found a comb and began working the tangles out of his matted hair. Arthur stared in fascination as the natural, innate nobility of the wild man he had known was transformed before his eyes into the sort of nobility most men recognized.

Their remaining journey to Camelot was without incident, and soon Arthur's mount was clattering into the bailey, Merlin riding double with the young King. As Arthur passed under the fortified gate, the crimson dragon that was his standard was run up the flag pole, replacing the ivy garland of Lady Morgana, who ruled in his absences. Morgana met them in the audience hall, standing to one side of the empty throne. She smiled gently at Arthur, and then froze like a rabbit and went pale as death when her eyes came to rest on Merlin. 

"My Lady," Merlin said, and she managed to blanche further, but bobbed a polite if rather stiff curtsey in response to Merlin's deep bow. 

"This is Merlin," Arthur said, looking back and forth between the two of them. "We met some years ago near the border," he explained by way of introduction, and Morgana nodded, regaining her composure, schooling her face to placidity. 

"Who are your people?" the Lady asked, and Merlin smiled his wolf smile. 

"I have no people," he said, and she blanched again, but gave no other sign of her discomfort. 

Dinner was a slightly strained affair, Arthur unable to settle the feeling that somehow he was missing something to do with Merlin and Morgana both. When the dancing started after the chargers had been cleared away and the tables pushed to the sides of the hall, Arthur was a little surprised when Merlin was the first to rise. The raven haired man laughed at his expression, offering a hand to Morgana. 

"I have spent time in towns before," Merlin said, as though Arthur were being rather stupid. "I simply prefer to be out in the wild for the most part." Arthur nodded, and Morgana tentatively placed her hand in Merlin's. The dance that followed was like nothing Arthur had ever seen. For the most part, partners chose or were chosen based on political alliances, not actual favour, and it made for slightly cold, mechanical steps. But Merlin's arm circled Morgana's waist with a hint of possessiveness, and he pulled her body against his without regard for who watched, without regard for the crimson flush that soon warmed Morgana's face. Everyone in the hall could see from the first turn of the dance that Merlin meant to have Morgana in his bed, and that she would not struggle against him overly much. Arthur left before too much longer, unable to bear the sight of the only man to ever touch him holding his foster-sister so intimately. 

For the next few weeks, Arthur felt he could not go anywhere without seeing Merlin and Morgana together. They were quite a lovely pair, a matched set in some ways, with their proud features and raven locks, the strange knowing look they both got in their blue eyes. Every time he saw them though, a sharp pang ran through Arthur, and it got so he was loathe to leave his room. He did of course, he was King after all, and had a nation to run. But he restricted his movements for the most part to those parts of the castle and keep that he was less likely to see Merlin and Morgana in, the training grounds and stables, armoury and mews. Still, he saw them, walking out in the gardens together, dark heads bowed as they spoke softly into one another's ears. He saw them leaving the archives or circumnavigating the duck pond, riding out with Morgana's handmaiden as their only attendant. It bothered Arthur immensely, but it went against no law, broke no rule. It was unseemly, ruined Morgana's reputation, but she had never been one for propriety for propriety's sake. 

Even so, after a few weeks, Arthur decided that enough was enough. The only decision was which of them he ought to speak to first. So late one night, after he was certain Merlin would have returned to his chambers, Arthur went next door, pushing to door open without bothering to knock. He was the King after all, and no door was closed to him. What he saw though, made him rather wish he had knocked. Merlin and Morgana knelt in front of the fireplace, both of them naked as babes. The fire cast them both in warm golden light and thick black shadow. Their hands were joined between them, and Merlin's eyes had gone that gold Arthur remembered from when they first met. He gasped sharply in surprise, and Morgana's head whipped around in surprise. She started away from him, breaking her connection to Merlin as she covered herself with her hands. 

"What is the meaning of this?" Arthur asked gruffly, and Merlin stood, enveloping Morgana in his arms, shielding her from Arthur's view. 

"I am teaching her," Merlin said simply, and Arthur felt his brow furrow in confusion.

"I am a sorceress," Morgana confessed in a tiny voice. "I dreamed of Merlin's coming before he arrived. Arthur, since before I came to Camelot I have dreamed things, things that have always come to pass. When - when your father was King, I lived in terror. Since, I have tried to teach myself, but I - Merlin has more magic than I could ever hope to." Arthur stared for a long moment, taking in the way Merlin's hands protected Morgana, the way he held her as if she belonged to him. 

"There is more to it than that," Arthur growled, and Merlin's grasp on Morgana changed slightly, became yet more possessive. Morgana let out a soft little gasp of pleasure, her cream skin pinking as she leaned back against Merlin. Merlin smiled at Arthur, that most dangerous of smiles, and then his mouth was on Morgana's neck, her shoulder. His hand cupped her full breast, and Morgana was crimson, but Arthur couldn't tell if it was desire or shame that coloured her cheeks. She whimpered softly, and Arthur's eyes followed the strong line of Merlin's arm to where he cupped her sex. 

"You will remove yourself to Tintagel Castle," Arthur ordered thickly, then turned on his heel and swept out, pausing at the door to look back and catch Merlin's golden eyes. "You will stay here with me." Three days later Morgana was gone, and Merlin was once more in Arthur's bed. 

"You know I do not love her," Merlin told Arthur one morning, tracing meaningless patterns on Arthur's smooth chest, and Arthur glared at the warlock narrowly. 

"She is lovely, I will not deny that, and she reminded me powerfully of my sister, who I did love, more than any other in the world. But I do not love the Lady Morgana Arthur, and she knows that as well as I do." Arthur didn't respond, just pinned Merlin back into the bed and kissed him silent, then slowly made love to him, trying to get across with every deep thrust of his hips what he could not bring himself to say yet. For the next few months, Camelot was peaceful, and Arthur quickly became somewhat dependent upon Merlin's advice. It was not so much Merlin's knowledge, but his faith in Arthur, and his belief in Arthur's inherent goodness that the young King needed. When it came time for him to make tough decisions, he found himself thinking, but what would Merlin expect me to do? and not once when he had followed what he thought Merlin would expect did he make the wrong decision. 

The idyll was shattered when the Picts began encroaching over the norther border, running raids in the night, stealing food and livestock, killing the men who dared to fight, raping the womenfolk and kidnapping the children. As on every other campaign since arriving, Merlin rode out with Arthur at the head of the column of Knights. In this foray though, he wore for the first time the official robes of Court Mage, a position that had not existed in Camelot in decades. The Picts were at first easy to drive back, their raiding bands no match for Arthur's well trained Knights. But that was before their Queen Militant arrived, resplendent in her gold tooled leather armour. 

Her raven hair was plaited back from her exquisite face, eyes a hard steel grey that flashed with pride. Her grey charger split through the lines of the rag tag Pictish army, a plain white standard borne by her attendant. Merlin gave Arthur a single nod. She came in honest parley. They rode out side by side, and as they approached, magic sang across Merlin's skins. 

"She is a sorceress," he warned quietly, and Arthur nodded, but did not halt. 

"My Lady," Arthur said with a small bow when he dismounted, and she did not return the courtesy, but rather had her servant speak for her. 

"My Lady Niniane, the Queen of Northingales desires you leave the field of battle. She asserts the right of rule over the lands to the stone bridge in the south, through the lineage of the King in the North. She also bids you send your pet sorcerer back to your encampment, that she might treat with you, peer to noble peer." Merlin snorted loudly in response, and the servant looked up, startled to silence. 

"I am no one's pet," Merlin spat out. "And just for that, I will have you in a collar." There was no chance for anyone to argue or respond, because in a single flash of his golden eyes, Merlin had thrown the servant to the ground more than ten paces back, and had the Queen of Northingales on her knees in the dirt, his hand in her hair. Her armour dissolved from her form like so much mist, and she choked back a sob of shame as Merlin hauled her to her feet by the hair. He traced a single finger around the delicate skin of her neck, and a thick collar of gold settled on her shoulders. Arthur stared as Merlin's fingers spun a delicate leash of gold, and tears seeped silver and silent down the Queen's face. "You will perform fealty to King Arthur," Merlin ordered, and she hesitated, but only for a moment, because then Merlin's hand was on her shoulder, forcing her back to her knees. 

The oath was nearly indecipherable through the Lady's sobbing, but Arthur was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and so the Pictish Kingdom of Northingales was absorbed into the Kingdom of Camelot. They rode back to Camelot proper with Queen Niniane of Northingales thrown over the withers of Merlin's charger like a sack of so much loot, not a single stitch on her to preserve what remained of her dignity. Once back in the palace, Merlin had the former Queen installed as his personal servant. He had her dressed as a Queen despite her new status, shimmering silks and heavy satins, thick furs and richly embroidered velvets. But the only jewelry she wears is that heavy gold necklace, and everyone knows that she belongs to Merlin. 

Three weeks after their return, a party arrived from the Wastelands Kingdom, headed by Queen Vivian, sister to Niniane of Northingales. Vivian was just as lovely as Niniane. She was also just as powerful a sorceress and just as arrogant a bargainer. Within three days of her arrival, she had likewise been stripped of her Kingdom, collared and chained for insulting Merlin. It was not quite the proper protocol, but Merlin's vengeful anger would not be denied, not even by Arthur's command, and so there was really nothing that could be done.

At first, it amused Arthur, the silent sorceresses that trailed in Merlin's wake. They never spoke that Arthur can hear, just lurked two steps behind Merlin, sullen looks on their pretty faces. They were the best dressed women in the entire court, covered head to toe in expensive deeply dyed fabrics. Their collars alone could feed the entire city for over a year. Arthur stopped being amused however, when he went to summon Merlin early one morning and found his Sorcerer in bed with both former Queens, their mouths crimson with Merlin's bloody kisses. 

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" Arthur asked with a shake of his head, and Merlin grinned at him. Bound by their oaths of fealty, Arthur sent the sister Queens back to their former Kingdoms. They rode out in magnificent gowns, but they were still wearing Merlin's chains around their necks. Despite his jealousy though, Arthur could not bring himself to send Merlin away. He made excuses for his sorcerer, and some of them even rang true. After all, Merlin had been, to use a worn expression, raised by wolves. How could anyone expect him to know the strictures of courtly etiquette, let alone follow them?


	5. The Summer King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the golden years of Camelot, when Arthur rules with Lancelot at his side and Merlin watching his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brings in some of the Lancelot legends and completely disregards the backstory given by the show for Lancelot. Also completely disregards anything ever written about Guinevere and her relationships with both Arthur and Lancelot.

# The Summer King

Outwardly, Merlin was civilized from the moment he first set foot in Camelot. But his tryst with Lady Morgana and his treatment of the Pictish Queens proved within the first year that he lived by an entirely different set of rules than most. He learned quickly though, hearing every rumour that whispered through the drafty stone corridors and adapting as necessary. If there was one thing equally applicable to life in the forest and life in the Royal Court, it was that camouflage was a very good idea. So Merlin mellowed his vindictive nature, learned to keep his toothy smile from scaring people. It was impossible though, to change his mercurial temper or flights of nearly obsessive curiosity. When something took his interest, he would immerse himself in it fully, to the point of ignoring Arthur and the entire court. Often, that which took his interest was a pretty young woman, but it was just as likely to be a new method of brewing mead or applying gold leaf to illuminated manuscripts. Merlin's projects were not often finished, and he tired of his conquests fairly quickly as well, always returning to Arthur's bed when he grew bored of his mistresses.

It got to be so it could be told whether Merlin warmed Arthur's bed or not by the state of the Kingdom. If Arthur rode out to war or even just to tournament with only his Knights at his back, Merlin was in Camelot, between the legs of a pretty raven haired lass. If Arthur rode out with his Court Mage, then everyone knew that Merlin had returned to the King's bed, and confidence ran high. King Arthur won the majority of his campaigns and all of his tourney challenges. But if Merlin was at his side, he would not only win, he would win with a brutal efficacy that cowed his opponent and sent rumours of hidden divinity whispering on the wind. 

Things continued in this pattern for the first few years after Merlin's arrival in Camelot. Civilization did of course, slowly change the sorcerer. He began to slowly accept and even accommodate the courtly patterns of behavior. At times, Merlin even acted as a noble would be expected to. From the beginning he had respected the bonds of marriage, and would not bed another man's wife. As time passed, he began to respect things like unspoken bonds of affection or a maiden's honour as a virgin as something other than challenges in bedding a woman.

That strange but somewhat settled pattern was broken when Arthur rode out alone against King Gillomanius of Eire, last of those who had supported the Saxons who encroached on the Isles. In hindsight, Merlin was amazed he had let the closest he had to friend or family left go off across the Inner Sea without him, especially given the reputation of the Irish for strong and dangerous magics. But he was rather infatuated with his current mistress at the time, and so Arthur and his contingent of Knights rode out of Camelot without their Mage, and though they were confident, there was a slight spring their steps lacked. A fortnight after the delegation left Camelot, Merlin could not sleep. He sent his mistress from his chambers abruptly, and by changing of the guards at dawn, he was pacing the battlements anxiously. Something was wrong with Arthur, and he did not know what. For the next week, he paced the ramparts and spent hours in the deepest caverns beneath the castle, trying to decipher the cryptic ramblings of the penned dragon.

The page that bore the message was run nearly into the ground, but the moment Merlin saw the boy's face, he knew what he needed to do. A spell lifted the substance of the summons from the surface of the boy's mind, and then Merlin was calling for his horse and his sword, not bothering with anything else. A few soft murmurs as he kneaded his horse's neck, urging it to greater speed, and they were soon outrunning the wind. They stopped but once, at a crossroads where three women awaited. Merlin knew them even before he fully recognized their faces. Lady Morgana and the sister Queens of Northingales and the Wastelands. He reined in his mount, and they curtseyed deeply, the Knight behind them bowing in his saddle. 

"You will need a proper champion," Morgana said. "Sir Gawain's pride will not accept your leadership as anything other than Arthur's adviser." Merlin bowed his head in silent acceptance. His own gift of foresight was weak, giving him not visions but feelings. Morgana's however was powerful almost beyond what could be understood. What she said almost always came to pass. 

"He is Galahad, called Lancelot du Lac, son of King Ban of Benwick, who is Vassal of Arthur," Morgana said, and Merlin looked back at the man. His own age, or perhaps a few years his senior, with dark shoulder length hair and rich bronze skin. 

"Well met Sir Lancelot," Merlin said, his horse dancing under him. "Will you serve our King?" Lancelot bowed his head, his armoured gauntlet striking his breastplate over the heart, making the shining steel ring like a bell. The unease Merlin had carried with him for the last week eased slightly, and he nodded. He bowed to the three Queens, and they curtseyed deeply in return, backing off the hard packed highway. Merlin leaned over, stoking his hand down the neck of Lancelot's charger, then spurred his own mount, and they were lunging forward, covering the leagues to the sea with unnatural speed.

As they approached the shore, Merlin did not slow his mount at all. Lancelot reined in sharply, watching in amazement as Merlin's horse leapt the breakers as if they were fallen logs then continued on, hooves skimming over the top of the ocean waves. Merlin turned in the saddle, then wheeled his mount, and Lancelot nodded and spurred his charger into motion. It balked somewhat beneath his hands, but then he too was racing over the sea, salt spray flying up into his face and stinging his eyes. By nightfall they were within the encampment of the Knights of Camelot. The Knights looked downtrodden, beaten and disheartened. 

When they saw Merlin ride by, they looked up at him darkly, muttering under their breath, wondering where he had been with his magic and flashing eyes when they had needed him on the field of battle. Lancelot they just stared at blankly, and Merlin knew they would wonder if this was perhaps his latest lover. Merlin disregarded the stares and whispers of the Knights though, and made for Arthur's pavilion. With a single glare he cleared the attendants from the shadowy interior of the tent. Going to Arthur's side, Merlin went to his knees, taking the pale hands of his King in both of his own hands. 

"Arthur," Merlin said softly, emotion tightening his throat and stinging at the corners of his eyes. "You cannot die. Not yet. Not when I have only just realized what it would mean to lose you." He leaned in, ghosting delicate closed mouthed kisses over Arthur's closed eyes and wan face. Their trysts had never had room for tenderness, only savage lust and possession. But Merlin had not slept, had barely eaten since he felt something go wrong with Arthur. If Arthur were taken from him, he was certain he would run mad with grief, and tear the world apart with his hands. He leaned down again, resting his head on Arthur's chest, listening to the slow, thready tripping of Arthur's heart. "Please," Merlin whispered softly, and silent tears slipped free of his shuttered eyes, glistening in his dark lashes before trailing down his cheeks.

Slowly Merlin took a deep breath, then stood, quickly stripping away the rich robes of Court Mage. With tender care he removed the light nightshirt that was Arthur's only garment, then straddled the King's hips on the pallet. Shaking his hear back from his face, Merlin laid his hands on either side of Arthur's head and took a deep breath. Arching his back, presenting his face to the hidden heavens, Merlin's lips moved. His spell was silent, passing from his lips straight into the heavens and touching no mortal ear in between. 

Under him, Arthur's heart steadied and strengthened. The infection faded from his grievous wound, and the flesh knit slowly back together. Arthur stirred gently, and Merlin's mouth kept moving. The King stilled, settling into a deep, healing sleep, and Merlin collapsed against his chest, eyes rolling into his head as he poured every ounce of his strength into preserving Arthur's life. When Merlin woke, he was curled in Arthur's arms, riding side-saddle on the King's lap. When he stirred, Arthur's mailed arm tightened around his waist, and he stilled, resting his head on Arthur's broad shoulder. 

"I will not leave your side again Sire," Merlin said, and Arthur looked down sharply, rather surprised to hear his title in anything but a mocking tone from his sorcerer. "I almost lost you," Merlin murmured, reaching up to trace one hand along Arthur's face. "I cannot bear the thought of it Arthur. There is so much yet to be done. I will not be parted from you. Not yet." Arthur smiled softly, brushing a chaste kiss across Merlin's brow. "I am yours to command," Merlin said softly. "Your weapon, to use as you will if you should wish it." Arthur shook his head, leaning closer to kiss the corner of Merlin's mouth. 

"You are so much more than a weapon love," Arthur said gently, eyes soft with affection, and Merlin nearly gasped, his chest searing with pain. His hands fisted against Arthur's chest, eyes falling closed. He opened his mouth in silent supplication, and Arthur reined his mount in slightly so he could lean down to kiss Merlin breathless.

"How long?" Merlin asked a while later, eyes fixed on the distant horizon. 

"They say you arrived the day before I woke," Arthur said. "That was four days past. While I yet slept, and for the first day after, when I was as yet too weak to bear arms, Sir Lancelot led the Knights, to great success. Yesterday Gillemanius gave his unconditional surrender. His head will be more than sufficient warning to those who would back my enemy." Merlin smiled wickedly at the steel in Arthur's voice. Although fair and just, Arthur had a well trained vindictive side, and Merlin had always found that slightly wilder aspect of his King enormously appealing. He leaned up, trailing his mouth along Arthur's clean shaven jaw, tasting the clean sweat on his skin and the salt of the sea breeze. 

They stopped and set up camp early that night, one day outside Camelot. The Knights hunted for their suppers, and when the bonfires were built high, they feasted like the war bands of olden days. Wineskins were raised high to the health and honour of both King Arthur and his warlock, and for the first time, Merlin began to feel as though Camelot were really his home. At least as long as Arthur was there. Other toasts were made to Lancelot, who had already secured himself as the Champion of the hour. The carousing went on into the wee hours of morning, but Arthur and Merlin retired early to the Royal pavilion. There, Merlin brushed the King's hands from the straps of his armour and unfastened it himself, as if he were a common servant. He kneeled reverentially as he unlaced Arthur's breeches, and Arthur's hand rested heavily on his shoulder. 

"I swear to you Arthur," Merlin breathed, looked up, golden-eyed, through his lashes. "I am yours. Yours alone. No one else has ever meant anything to me Arthur. They were simply diversions, petty infatuations. I am yours forever, no matter what your duty requires of you." They both knew what Merlin hinted at. They both knew that eventually, Arthur would have to take a wife and get her with child. But at the moment, that was in the future. The present belonged to them. Arthur smoothed his hand up the wiry musculature of Merlin's shoulder, up the graceful column of his throat, then pulled him gently to standing. 

"No matter my duty Merlin," Arthur breathed. "Your place is at my side." They kissed deeply, and the next day, when they entered Camelot, Lancelot rode in the place of honour at Arthur's right hand, but Merlin was still in the King's arms.

The new Knight fit easily into court life, and it was soon as if he had always resided at Camelot. Within a month of his arrival, Gwen, the freedwoman who had once been the Lady Morgana's maidservant was his mistress and numerous other ladies of the court, courtesans and courtiers alike, were plotting ways to replace her in his affections. It was a more or less futile endeavour of course, Lancelot was nothing if not loyal. The Knight's first loyalty was to Arthur, his Liege-lord, but his second was to Gwen, and by the time four months had passed, most of the other women of Camelot had given up. After Gwen, Lancelot's loyalty was to Merlin, and after the sorcerer, to the three Ladies of the Crossroads, as he called Morgana, Niniane and Vivianne. Merlin did not question the designation, and when Gwen's belly began to swell with child, too large to be hidden by generously cut gowns, Merlin whispered into the King's ear about the true nature of nobility until a tenuous connection found through her dead mother to a House with no Heirs and she was made Lady Guinevere of the Summerlands, a golden apple on a crimson field her noble insignia.

A golden glow seemed to settle over Camelot in those days. Arthur had finished his father's work, uniting the various small Kingdoms of Celts and Picts under his banner, securing the fealty of those who had once sided with the Saxons and even driving the Saxons back to their stronghold of Angleland. He repelled the Romans from Londinium, chased them through Bretony and took the life of their commander, with the warning that such would be the fate of any other interloper upon the white shores of Albion. The court grew in size and opulence, and Merlin sat ever at his King's left hand, hidden in the shadows behind the throne. Lancelot and his Lady sat on the right hand of the King, his chosen Champion and second in command. And if Merlin's eyes glittered constantly golden now, ever watchful for anything that might harm his Liege, his lover, his life, Arthur did not mention it, nor did anyone else.


	6. The Opener of the Gates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin has been trapped in the cave by Nimue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave the two Fairy Queens (other than Morgana and Nimue) the other names of the Lady of the Lake, and royally fucked around with _Le Morte d'Arthur_.

# The Opener of the Gates

Merlin stared into the scrying pool, still as the naturally formed pillars of stone around him. The water was still as death, and he waited. In the silence, the sound of his breathing seemed thick and heavy, but he knew it was no faster or slower than on any other day since Nimue had led him here, bound in chains of his own making. He stared over the dark water, ears pricked and straining, waiting as he had on so many other days. He waited, and eventually he was rewarded. 

The susurration of water against wood was so soft at first he was certain that he imagined it. But then he saw the glittering barge on the far horizon, like a distant candle guttering in the breeze. He clenched his hands, and the gentle lapping slowly became louder. The pinprick of light grew into a speck, then a spot, and finally a discernible shape. He caught the scent of apples and ocean, of the forest in summer and the heavy ripeness of golden grain. The four queens stared into him, and he named them in his mind. Nimue herself led them, with Morgana at her side. Behind them were their less skilled attendants, Niniane, Queen of Northingales and Vivian, Queen of the Wasteland.

The four queens were alike in their beauty, all alabaster skin and raven hair, ice pale eyes and blood red lips. Merlin smiled viciously at them. He had chosen and trained them well. Nimue and Morgana stepped in unison from the boat to the shore, curtseying so low their hair swept the cold stone floor. Merlin did not speak, looking past them into the barge. Arthur looked older than his forty odd years, golden hair beginning to silver with age. His beard grew thick upon his face, hiding the curve of his full, sensuous mouth. Merlin turned, cloak flaring about his slender form, and led the way into the caverns above.

Apple blossoms filled the air with their honeyed scent as Merlin strode out under the night sky. The Northern Lights danced overhead, and he let his heavy fur cloak slide from his shoulders. The four Queens laid Arthur upon a bower of rowan and mistletoe, then silently slipped away. Merlin ghosted his hands over Arthur's still face, then leaned down, dusting chaste kisses over the closed eyes and still mouth of the Once and Future King. When he pressed his mouth more insistently to Arthur's, the King's eyes fluttered open. With a soft gasp Arthur woke fully, trying to sit, but unable to because of his gaping wound. 

"Rest," Merlin said gently, pushing Arthur back down into the bower. Weakened by his wound and his long battle, Arthur had no choice but to acquiesce. Laying back, Arthur watched from beneath hooded eyes as Merlin deftly stripped away his armour, then peeled off his blood soaked clothes. The King had dreamed so long of this day, the day when he would once more be in the hands of his most trusted advisor and friend. He would never have imagined the twistings of the path that led him to this day, but he was glad he had walked that path, even when he had walked it alone.

Merlin stood, moon and star-light glinting off his milk pale skin, and then Merlin was straddling Arthur's hips, hands curling against the sides of Arthur's head. Merlin looked up into the sparkling sky, and his mouth moved, soundless words of enchantment spilling from his lips. Arthur gasped sharply as his flesh knit itself back together. Life and vigour returned to him, his deathly pale skin pinking with health. A gentle brush of Merlin's hand along Arthur's jaw, and the grizzled beard fell away, Arthur's face once again that of a twenty year old. Arthur reached up, tracing his own face, then the tender skin where the wound had been. He was smooth and whole, and as his fingers moved over his body, he realized Merlin had done more than heal him, more than give him back his golden youth. The old scars were gone as well, the raised weals and thick ropes of silvery tissue from a hundred battles since Merlin had left his side. Slowly Arthur reached up, this time tracing Merlin's face. Merlin smiled warmly, then leaned down and kissed Arthur deeply. 

"I promised you forever," Merlin breathed against Arthur's lips, and then he kissed Arthur again. "You are the Once and Future King," Merlin whispered, looking deep into Arthur's eyes. "We will stay here, together, until the world has need of you again. And then we shall go forth beloved, as it was in the summer of your reign, side by side." Arthur grinned, pulling Merlin down for another deep kiss.

"Sire," one of the Queens said from the shadows, and Arthur shifted slightly, breaking the kiss. He started, reaching for his weapon when he recognized Nimue.

"She is no danger to you," Merlin promised, then beckoned the sorceress closer. She approached slowly, cautiously, sweeping a deep curtsey as she came to a halt. 

"Lady Nimue du Lac," Merlin introduced, and Arthur's eyes widened. "Lancelot's foster mother," Merlin explained, and Arthur nodded slowly, still staring wide eyed at Nimue.

"All I have done has been for this goal," Nimue murmured softly, looking up at him through her dark lashes. "I was the forge that tempered you Sire. I gave you to your parents, and when it was time, I took them from you. I took every crutch from you, so that you could learn to stand on your own. I knew what Albion must become, and I knew you must accomplish it yourself, without Merlin, without a shadow king behind the throne. I knew you must be the greatest Champion in the land, the most worthy and righteous man, and so I was the fire and the water, the anvil and the hammer, and you have been forged into the greatest King this land will ever know. And when she has need of you once more, you will have the strength to answer Albion's call." Merlin looked up at him carefully.

"Lady Morgana is here as well," Merlin said softly. "And the Queens of the Wasteland and the Northingales." As he named them the other Ladies appeared out of the shadows, haunting in their beauty. Arthur stared at them for a long moment, then looked back at Merlin, the questions large in his brilliant blue eyes. "They, as I, are of Sidhe blood," Merlin said softly. "They as I, have every right to life eternal in Avalon. But they are yours to command Arthur. As above, so below. They swore to you once, and that bond still holds, as truly as mine does. I have trained them well, taught them the uses of their magic. But they are as sisters to me now. This is the truth Arthur, please," he said, and they could all hear the plea in his voice, see how his hands rested on Arthur's, trying to keep the King from drawing Excalibur. The three other Queens of Avalon came to stand with Nimue, and the four of them curtseyed deeply, remaining on their knees. 

"We are at your mercy Arthur," Morgana said, and she looked not a day older than when he had cast her in disgrace from Camelot. Merlin rose off of Arthur and knelt as well, unashamed by either his nakedness or his obvious arousal.

"You are ruler here now," Merlin said. "As surely as you are in the world above. We have worked in ways that you would not approve of, but all of it Arthur, all of it has been for your sake. All has been for your glory." Arthur sat up, hand closing on the hilt of his trusty sword. It sang with magic in his hand, and he rose slowly, coming to stand in front of Merlin, looking at the four kneeling women behind. Arthur reached out, gently rested his hand on Merlin's bare shoulder, and he could feel the magic coiled under Merlin's skin, warm and golden and almost unbearably alive.

"You swear fealty to me alone?" Arthur asked, and as one the four women answered: 

"I do my Lord." 

Merlin looked up, eyes gleaming like a predator's, and smiled that wolf smile. 

"Forever," Merlin whispered, and Arthur felt the magic swirling all around them, chaining Merlin and the four Queens stronger than iron ever could. Arthur slid his hand along Merlin's shoulder, curling it gently around the base of his neck possessively. Merlin's eyes fluttered closed as he leaned up, pressing a kiss to the smooth skin of Arthur's stomach before gently taking Arthur's prick into his mouth. Arthur sighed softly, hand tightening briefly around Merlin's throat, then stroking into his wild dark hair. When Arthur forced his eyes open, the Queens were gone, and so he pushed them from his mind, concentrated on the exquisite feeling of Merlin's tight throat working around the head of his cock. After a little while, Merlin pulled back, spittle dripping obscenely down his sharp chin. 

"I promised you forever," Merlin reiterated softly, warm breath ghosting over Arthur's wet cock and making him shiver. "Forever yours," Merlin continued huskily, then leaned back up, fitting his thumbs along the hollows of Arthur's hipbones as he sucked the King's prick into his mouth. Arthur groaned deeply, steadying himself with one hand on Merlin's shoulder, the other fisting in dark hair and urging Merlin to hurry. Merlin obliged, opening his throat and letting Arthur fuck his mouth, letting Arthur set the pace and depth. 

Given free reign, Arthur didn't prolong the sensation. He was too close already, and so he set a punishing pace, bruising Merlin's lips with sharp, rapid thrusts. With a soft grunt he buried himself as deeply as possible in Merlin's mouth, shooting down the sorcerer's throat. Merlin kept sucking gently after Arthur had cum, and Arthur groaned softly in response. His dick stayed hard, and when Merlin pulled back again, his eyes were blown with lust. Merlin stood gracefully, pulling Arthur close and grinding against him wantonly. 

"Yours Arthur," Merlin gasped into Arthur's mouth, and Arthur groaned softly, knowing what Merlin wanted, what Merlin needed. Gently he lifted Merlin by the waist, carried him back to the bower under the fragrant apple trees. Merlin spread his legs eagerly, writhing up against Arthur. Arthur grinned, leaning down to kiss Merlin breathless. As he did, he snaked an arm beneath Merlin, felt for his entrance. Merlin shivered and shook in his arms, and Arthur eased a finger into him. Magic crackled between then, and Arthur grinned as Merlin loosened. Arthur lined up the head of his cock and slowly pressed into Merlin. 

"I could have a thousand Queens," Arthur gasped. "And I would only want you, Merlin. Only you." Merlin grinned, then whimpered as he was filled, eyes rolling up into his head. They made love slowly, Arthur taking possession of Merlin's body, reacquainting himself with every once familiar plane of flesh. He forced himself to keep his eyes open, to watch every emotion as it flickered across Merlin's expressive face. There had been so much unsaid between them, so many times when despite how deeply he wanted to, he couldn't quite bring himself to trust Merlin completely. But somehow, despite that he had made love to Merlin like this a hundred times before, this time was different. 

Perhaps it was this strange enchanted place. Perhaps it was the unspoken certainty that he could not be hurt here. But for the first time, he felt as if he could truly read Merlin, could truly understand the golden eyed sorcerer, and that thought, that Merlin was finally laid bare beneath him, all artifice stripped away, was what finally sent Arthur tumbling over the edge, gasping Merlin's names and grasping his hips with bruising intensity. Even as Arthur came, he saw that split second of realization on Merlin's face, that prescience of bliss, and then Merlin was arching up, hot seed splattering across their bellies. 

"Arthur," Merlin moaned, a prayer, a benediction, a plea and a realization in itself, and Arthur leaned down, took his name from Merlin's mouth. He half expected to taste on Merlin's tongue, but all he tasted was apples and honey, and Merlin was shivering like a frightened child in his hands. He pulled away, gentling Merlin softly, smoothing his hands along the curves of Merlin's cheeks, tracing the bow of Merlin's bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. "Yours," Merlin murmured softly, looking up almost shyly through his long dark lashes, "yours to shape and remake as you wish. Your sword Arthur, and your shield, your weapon against whatever you chose to stand against. I will be your shelter Arthur, hearth and home, support and sustenance". Arthur closed his eyes, briefly, the fullness of what he was being told finally beginning to filter through. 

When Arthur opened his eyes again, Merlin was still laid bare beneath him, open and vulnerable in a way Arthur had only seen once before, only that brief moment when Merlin had woken in his arms after the victory over Gillomanius and declared himself. Gently Arthur gathered Merlin close, brushing soft kisses to his face, neck and shoulders. He smiled against Merlin's pale skin, and curled together, sheltering one another, they drifted into dreams. The four Queens melted out of the darkness, smiling sad and soft. They curtseyed, each in their turn, then shifted, facing away from the two men. They looked out over the four corners of the world, four watchtowers against what was to come. 

The earth spun beneath their feet, and the names of Arthur and Merlin passed into legend, their stories and deeds shifting and changing, but never, ever forgotten, keeping open the hope for their eventual return, born out of death.


End file.
